ver. Then one night Will and your father went out to Diablo in the
_Gull_. Why they went, heaven only will ever know."

She rose slowly and walked to the door.

"She won't sleep a wink to-night," exclaimed Dickie as the door closed
on her aunt. "I must look after her."

When the girl returned a few minutes later she found Gregory and McCoy
discussing business. Gregory remained on his feet at her entrance.

"I must be going," he said. "I have a lot of work to do."

Bidding McCoy good night, he followed Dickie to the hall.

"I'm glad you came up even if you did forget the balance-sheet. Come up
again any time you're not too busy."

With the girl's words in his ears, Gregory walked into the moonlight.
The evening had not been a complete failure after all. As he turned his
steps in the direction of the town his mind was wholly engrossed with
the events of the past two hours. How Aunt Mary did hate Diablo. Had the
girl noticed how badly his clothes fit him in comparison with McCoy's?
Why had Jack appeared so grouchy?

He stopped short in his descent of the hill road as he saw a man walking
unsteadily toward him. Moving to one side he watched the drunken
fisherman stumble on, heard the low mumbling of his voice. Then the
moonlight fell full upon the man's face.

It was Boris, the crazy Russian.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BAITED PAWN

Of all the many saloons that made up Legonia's water-front the "Red
Paint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. The universal
popularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. The boss
owned the place and paid off there between moons. Credit was freely
given to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, Mascola's emporium
enjoyed full police protection.

During the evening when Gregory made his first call at the Lang hill the
tide of revelry at the "Red Paint" was at the flood. It was pay-day and
the boss was in high good humor. Either occurrence was always good for a
number of rounds of free drinks. But when Mascola was happy on pay-day,
the liberality of the "Red Paint" was indeed prodigal.

And Mascola was happy. Within the frosted glass enclosure that marked
off his saloon-office from the bar, the Italian sat at his desk in a
genial glow of good humor. The glow was purely physical, superinduced by
the rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stood
at his elbow. The good humor was due to other causes.

As he re-filled his glass